


It's subjective, really

by orphan_account



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Coping, Drabble, F/M, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Knifeplay, Mild S&M, One-Shot, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, S&Mish, Unexpected Fluff, seriously where'd that fluff come from
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-01
Updated: 2013-03-01
Packaged: 2017-12-03 23:24:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/703836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky had been right; he did like being hit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's subjective, really

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Corscopa](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Corscopa).



It had been a long time since anyone had told Steve any kind of story, let alone reveling in the mere act of the telling itself.

He couldn't ever remember being _given_ a story, as was happening now; a personal gift meant for only him to hold briefly, lost once the story was told.

Bucky had been right; he did like being hit. He hadn't at the time; it was merely misplaced courage and -- he would freely admit it -- stupidity.  
It came later, when his body forgot the meaning of agony, the proof of all he had done slipping away in a matter of days. It was there that he felt the most disconnect from himself, or the self he had known. The one that knew pain first, and relief to be slow-coming and inconsistent. This body, this Steven, he was not even allowed the comfort of familiarity from his own being as he tried to adjust.

It had started when Natasha had woken him from a nightmare by pressing her fingers into his arm. He gasped awake, pulled back into himself by the force of something so achingly recognizable; like a long-lost brother.  
Unfortunately one that periodically faded away into obscurity.

He longed for pain. His previously constant companion provided him a strange sense of comfort; if it hurt, he was alive. He was himself.

She hadn't missed his reaction; that first night; and had taken to hurting him whenever he looked too overwhelmed, too distracted. Her nails would dig into his shoulder; the heel of her shoe would press tightly against his ankle, she would squeeze his hand barely too tight.  
Zeroed once more in on reality, he would smile at her vaguely in thanks before they continued about their business

But with no wars to fight, Steve grew simultaneously more and less comfortable. He explored and became accustomed to the complex life he found himself in, and the dysphoria only grew as he settled into the modern world.

So when things were at once refreshingly slow and terrifyingly fast, Natasha cut stories into his skin.

He stripped off his shirt, and she sat behind him, or had him lay down on his back or his chest, and ruffled his hair while she wielded a knife as a pen.

She wrote in Cyrillic as often as English, and he took the two days in which the scars lingered on him to gaze in the mirror at the beauty of language, though half the time he couldn't read it. He didn't need to; it wasn't the point.

Some days, the previous words had barely begun to heal when she etched new ones in their place, making a tangle of letters -- English and Russian blending together -- unrecognizable as any word or phrase.

Often, he was silent, enjoying the bitter tang of pain that faded so much more quickly than he remembered, leaving him in a confused haze once it left him.

But tonight, he asked her what she wrote, and her hair tickled his shoulder while she whispered in his ear, carving history on his back.

**Author's Note:**

> I saw a post on a tumblr Avengers headcanons blog that Steve was a masochist, and couldn't get the idea out of my head, so here's my spin on it.
> 
> I love to hear your thoughts!
> 
> \-- ACG


End file.
